


Cakewalk Suite, Cakewalk Sweet

by retroflex



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Banter, Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Friends with Benefits, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sex Toys, Slight Femdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retroflex/pseuds/retroflex
Summary: After Claude accidentally doses himself with an aphrodisiac, he ends up horny, desperate, and utterly alone. There’s only one person around he can ask for help, and she just so happens to be the laziest person he knows—but luckily, sheiswilling to help! All Claude has to do is endure her mockery, do all of her chores, attend to her needs...and try not to catch any feelings in the process.Hilda mostly just thinks it’s funny. Why pass up an opportunity to have her house leader at her mercy?
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44
Collections: Horny Void





	Cakewalk Suite, Cakewalk Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was the result of a discussion about Claude dosing himself with an aphrodisiac, but early enough in the school year that he wouldn’t be able to trust anyone to help him with it. If Hilda found him, then she would definitely help him, but she’d be _sooo_ lazy about it, gleefully mocking him the entire time, forcing him to hump her foot, making him clean up the mess, etc...the idea seized my brain and wouldn’t let go. Here’s what I wrote for it. Enjoy.
> 
> Actually, I was supposed to publish this fic five weeks ago. Better late than never, I guess. The title has nothing to do with story, I was just listening to [Cakewalk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qN5_emhLAIo) on loop while I was writing it.

Out of all the stupid things he’s done in his life, this is definitely one of them.

Like an idiot, like an _amateur_ , he’s forgotten to tighten the stopper. So when it falls to the floor and bounces away, he’s caught off guard and wastes a precious second searching for it, by which time the solution has boiled over and the fumes are already upon him. The phial burning on his hotplate spews a gas so sweet-smelling it’s noxious, and Claude, his eyes watering, his throat gagging, somehow manages to reach his wash basin and pour the whole thing over his desk before it can get any worse.

The hotplate ends up drenched—as does his homework for tomorrow, and at least three half-finished library books—but at least the fire has been put out, so it’s time to bail. Still coughing and spluttering, Claude kicks his door open and tumbles out into the hallway, collapsing against the opposing wall, terrified. Already, he can feel the concoction spreading in his lungs. It lays its hot, creeping roots in his veins, and he _shakes_. This is what he gets for trying to branch out. If it had been one of his familiar alkaloids, he would already be drinking the antidote by now. But today’s recipe had called for something shockingly unfamiliar, something far more potent than any poison: an aphrodisiac, meant for piercing young minds and blackmailing unsuspecting hearts, turning any person afflicted into a hot, bothered mess, making them so horny it would be _unbearable_ until one way or another they could find a method of sweating it out.

And Claude had just inhaled several lungfuls of the stuff.

Well, at least the formula works, right?

He leans against the wall, heaving. His blood pumps so fast that he can practically hear it rushing past his ears. At least the student dormitory is deserted. He’s never been so grateful to be alone. Because right now, he’s not even sure if he can walk, much less go find help, and if his classmates were to find him like this—helpless, with dry sweat running down his spine, his cock throbbing hard in his pants—Claude squeezes his eyes shut, fencing together his teeth. Lorenz is already insufferable enough. No, finding help is going to have to wait.

On shaky legs, he manages to cross the hallway and slam his door shut. It’s a mistake. The blowback sends more chemical smoke swirling at him, and Claude starts coughing again, his breathing turned hot and open-mouthed as he sinks to the floor, sitting with legs spread open, desperately palming his cock, groping himself through his pants, feeling the precum that’s _already sticking_ —

It’s _too much_. His teeth start chattering despite his efforts to hold them still. The fear of getting caught sears his mind, but the heat shooting through his body is too frightening to ignore. He needs to relieve himself, _now_.

And then, down the hallway, a door creaks open.

Claude freezes in absolute horror.

“Claude?” Hilda’s voice calls. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he manages to call back. It’s shocking how normal his voice sounds, given the circumstances.

“Are you okay? I heard something crash,” she says, already striding towards him.

Claude turns his back to her, hunching over, trying to hide her from the front of his pants. Of course. Out of all the people who could catch him, it just _had_ to be someone from his house, someone who he needs to act normal in front of. Which is rapidly becoming more difficult by the second.

“Shouldn’t you be in class right now?” he tries to point out.

“Shouldn’t _you_?” she counters, then sniffs the air. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I ditched class to brew poison. Very _delicate_ poison, might I add, the kind that takes an entire day to make properly.” He stops for a second to catch his breath. The ability to form coherent words is already slipping beyond him. “So, uh. What’s your excuse?”

“I didn’t feel like going,” she says nonchalantly, and sniffs the air again. “What smells like marshmallows?”

“That’s the poison. Don’t breathe it in,” Claude grunts, and, to her credit, Hilda takes a large step back. He hunches even further down, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. But Hilda is still peering over his shoulder, and—sweat rolls heavily down his face, and a surge of pleasure rips through his body, and he bites his lower lip in desperation, trying, _trying_...

“Claude?” she says, her voice tinged with worry.

He braces himself, pressing a hand over his stomach, his thighs brimming with white-hot tension until he can’t hold it anymore and _spills_.

A needy, high-pitched whine escapes his lips as he loses control, soiling his underwear without a hand ever touching his naked cock. Claude shudders as it spurts weakly over his skin. He’s sweating so hard that he’s nearly in tears. Hilda walks around in front of him, the steady _tap tap tap_ of her footsteps echoing as she moves through the silent, empty hall.

“Claude,” she repeats, a bit slower, “are you okay?”

If there’s ever a time in his life to be honest, it’s now.

“I may have...accidentally poisoned myself,” he groans. “And my entire bedroom, in the process.”

“Wow, what an idiot,” Hilda says. “Are you gonna die?”

His voice comes out ragged. “No. Sorry to disappoint you. It’s not fatal, it’s just...mind poison.”

“Huh?”

“Hilda, listen,” he pleads with her. “It’s not a regular poison. It’s not designed to kill you. It just...” His face flushes, heat surging through him in a way it never has, not so quickly after an orgasm. “ _It makes you horny_.”

Immediately, Hilda throws her head back and starts laughing louder than anyone else he’s ever heard in his entire life. At least the dormitories are empty save the two of them, so no one else can bear witness to his shame. Hilda doubles over, clutching her stomach from laughing so hard, as Claude sags on the ground beneath her.

“No _way_!” she crows gleefully. “Is that a thing? Without your hands? Holy _shit_ , Claude, I can’t—it’s just—”

She bursts into laughter again, and Claude grits his teeth, trying not to lose himself a second time. His cock is still hard under his clothes. It’s sticky with his cum and twitching uncomfortably, spreading the mess around in his pants and he _hates_ it.

Hilda stops laughing long enough to mime wiping a tear from her eye. “Oh, Goddess, that’s terrible. You poisoned _yourself_ with it? That’s so stupid I just have to believe it. What are you gonna do now?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. It almost sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. “I breathed in the gas instead of drinking it directly. That probably diluted it a bit. So it should wear off in...less than a day? I don’t have an antidote.”

She snorts. “A day, huh? So what was your plan? Just stay out here in the hallway and jack off?”

He has no intelligent response to that.

“Very impressive, Mr. House Leader,” she snarks at him. “Oh, now if _only_ there was _someone_ around to _help_ _you_...”

He’s not too proud to beg. “Hilda, please. I swear.” His cock twitches, sending an uncomfortable mixture of nausea and pleasure up his spine, and he involuntarily shudders again. “I think I might actually die. Please, _please_ let me hide in your room.”

Her smile will haunt his nightmares. “Okay. But only because you asked so nicely! Let me get your clothes—”

“Don’t go in there!”

Hilda freezes, her hand hovering just above his bedroom door.

“Don’t open that door,” Claude blabbers. “It’s still contaminated. My window was open, so it’s gonna air out, as long as the door stays closed. Uh, eventually.”

“If you say so. I guess I can give you something to wear. You can like, walk, right?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, and rises unsteadily to his feet. Warm shivers spread throughout his body, permeating his muscles, inducing spasms. Is that a side effect? He should probably be taking notes. His still-hard cock bulges underneath his pants, tenting through a noticeable stain, and he does his best to turn away from Hilda, trying not to—not to _point_ it at her. The same unbothered look sits on her face as she saunters past, completely unfazed. Claude hesitates. It’s not that he’s not grateful, but how can she be so _casual_ about this?

“Hilda...” he says, and she whirls around expectantly. “Thank you.”

“Nah. Save it,” she tells him. “I’m just helping you, okay? Aren’t I such a good friend? I know you’d do the same for me, if I ever—” She snorts again, and resumes walking. “If I ever—poisoned myself with horny juice—hahahahaha—”

Claude groans, and tries to walk straight as he follows her down the hall.

It’s his first time in Hilda’s room, and he’s not surprised to discover it’s an absolute mess. Dirty clothes lay strewn all over the floor, and the smell of perfume barely covers up the dust, and her vanity has so much garbage scattered around it—hairbrushes, combs, bottles of nails polish, tubes of creamy, sand-colored paste, random sponges and containers—that it makes the rest of her room look tidy by comparison. He trudges inside, locking the door behind them, and Hilda practically throws a spare chair at him for him to sit down. Once seated, he takes a second to breathe. Having an orgasm seemed to calm his body for a while, but he can still feel it prickling under his skin, creeping in at the edges, constantly trapping him within that foggy, anxious haze. Hilda plops down on her bed, unconcerned. “Okay, Claude. Get undressed while I figure this shit out. What, _exactly_ , did you do to yourself?”

He kicks off his boots, then starts fumbling with the fastenings of his uniform jacket. The pounding in his blood makes it hard to focus. “I was brewing the aphrodisiac in my room—”

“The what?”

“The love potion,” he clarifies. “And it blew up in my face. Uh, literally. That’s it. That’s the whole story.” One of the fastenings seems to be stuck—forget it, he decides, before just yanking the whole garment over his head, yellow capelet included. His undershirt is heavy with sweat by now. Peeling it off doesn’t make him feel any hotter or colder.

“Uh-huh,” Hilda intones. “So, what? Now you’re just really really really horny?”

Claude breathes in, trying not to moan aloud. “Pretty much.”

“Why does it have to smell like marshmallows?”

“For the flavor,” he says, which isn’t true, but in the state he’s in, he can hardly explain the glucose-based compound that sends the aphrodisiac to the brain and circulates it through the bloodstream. Hilda just rolls her eyes.

“You’re so _extra_ ,” she tells him, and in spite of himself, a grin spreads across his face. No reason to deny _that_.

By now, he’s nude from the waist up, which helps a little bit with the sweating. The itch under his skin burns hotter than ever, yet he still hesitates a moment, pausing with his fingers hooked into the top of his pants. Even if Hilda isn’t being weird about this—come to think of it, she’s actually being incredibly, uncharacteristically helpful—he’s still reluctant to get totally naked in front of someone he’s not sure he can trust. Even if that someone is currently guiding him through the most uncomfortable situation of his life.

But then another surge of heat rushes through him, even more intense than what he felt in the hallway, and he begins panting out loud, practically drooling in his desperation for release. His hips shudder forward without his input, grinding against nothing. He _needs_ to feel something. He _needs_ to succumb to the heat that burns like a furnace in his belly before it flashes over and cooks him alive. By now, the aphrodisiac must be taking its full effect.

With Hilda openly watching, Claude slips off his pants, trying not to act too desperate as he does. He moves down along his bare legs, taking off his socks, tucking them into his boots, leaving him with only one remaining piece of clothing; the one he probably shouldn’t have saved for last. His smallclothes are a twitchy, cum-streaked mess. Carefully, he stretches the waistband over himself. A moan is choked off midway, his teeth biting down on his tongue. His previous orgasm still rests all over his thighs, so the cool air feels like heaven on his bare, burning skin, and—he just can’t resist the urge to stroke himself a quick few times as he frees himself, dangling his stained underwear in his other hand.

“Hey, wait,” Hilda says. “You still need that.”

“What?”

“Don’t make a mess!” she snaps at him. “That’s already ruined, so just keep using it.”

Something within Claude’s poisoned mind decides that that’s all the permission he needs.

Groaning, he starts pumping his cock with the dirty fabric, his mouth falling open as he _finally_ gets the relief he craves. Hilda sits cross-legged atop her bed, grinning wolfishly, paying more attention to him than he’s ever seen her pay in class. He tries to get comfortable—stretching out and relaxing, but his legs still jiggle hard enough to rattle the chair, his body constantly itching for him to go faster. His other hand slips downward to desperately massage his balls, almost _painful_ in how they ache.

Pleasure overtakes his tension quickly. With a muted cry, he lets himself loose and climaxes again, desperately fucking into his hand, feeling heavy spurts spray against the sticky cloth and go nowhere before they drip back down to add to the mess on his thighs.

Hilda leans a bit closer, the smile never leaving her face.

When Claude finally slows, an exhausted sigh rolls out of his throat. Compared to finishing hands-free, this is _perfect_. The room is filled with the sounds of his hard, heavy panting, and his hand falls down to the side, letting him collapse into a sweaty, ruined mess—and then Hilda breaks into polite applause, as if he just finished delivering a presentation in front of the class.

“Thank you,” he says tonelessly. Leaning back, his other hand presses against his forehead, brushing damp hair out of his eyes. His thighs still clench on nothing. His mind is still racing. It’s _still not enough_.

“Wow...” Hilda says, “it’s...not going down. Huh.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he quips, and even manages to offer her a shaky grin. With his mind slightly less clouded now, he can try to prop up his usual confident personality. Always try to play it off. Always try to crack a joke. Hilda seems totally unaffected.

His cock lies half-hard against his body, twitching defiantly, and Claude glances at the underwear in his hand. It looks...saturated.

“It’s fine,” Hilda says easily. The gleeful look has returned to her eyes. “Just throw all your stuff in the basket.” She gestures to a large pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Presumably, said laundry basket is buried underneath. Claude tosses his smallclothes in, then scrounges around on the floor for his undershirt and his pants as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hilda dragging up her own wash basin, soaking a towel before handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he says again—just in case she’s forgotten—and begins wiping warm sweat and semen off his body. It’s starting to dry in his leg hair and each pull makes him wince. As he does, Hilda begins picking up clothes from her bed, gathering socks and frilly skirts and other mostly-pink garments Claude doesn’t have names for, throwing them into her laundry pile as well.

“Hey, I just thought of something,” she says cheerfully. “When I go and wash all this—you know, your clothes are in with mine now, and, _ugh_ , it just seems like more _work_...”

They’ve only known each other for a few months, and yet all of her tricks already seem so old.

“I’ll do all the laundry for you,” Claude says wearily. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Wow, thanks!” she exclaims. She seems to have more dirty clothes than he has clothes, total. With her floor now visible, she sits down on the bed again to start taking off her boots, and Claude stares, transfixed, as Hilda unwraps her skirt, casually rolling down her thigh-high socks—and his cock stiffens again in his hand, leaking another bead of cum onto his stomach.

“Hilda,” he groans, and he can’t help it, he starts stroking himself again, “are you—gonna—”

“What?” she says innocently. “I said I would help, didn’t I?” That’s _definitely_ laughter working its way into her otherwise-smug smile. She unbuttons her white uniform blouse, beaming, granting him a peek down her cleavage. “And it’s not like I’m getting nothing out of this. Just...fuck me until you feel better, okay?”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Immediately, Claude springs from the chair and starts groping her. Hilda giggles as his hands roam greedily all over her front, unpracticed but desperate, and she slides her panties down as she rolls backwards on the bed.

“You’ll have to do all the work, though!” she quickly adds. “I don’t want to get all sweaty and tired. It’s too early in the morning for this!”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do anything,” Claude stammers, breathless, sharp, whatever she needs to hear. “You’re just...so beautiful. Gods, I could spend the rest of my life looking at these...”

Hilda swats him on the back of the head.

“Ow!”

“Claude, I’m already here for you,” she reminds him, almost pitying. “Don’t use those lines on me _now_.”

“But I _want_ to,” he blurts out. Hilda actually pauses for a second, her half-unlaced underbust hanging loosely from her waist.

“Hold on,” she says, punctuating every syllable. “Wait a minute. Claude. Is this your first time?”

“Yeah,” he admits hotly, and brushes his cockhead over her entrance, hard, eager, trying to prove— _something_. Maybe the emotional impact of this will catch up to him later, when he’s not being driven insane with hormones. But for now, all he wants is for Hilda to finish undressing so he can start fucking her, with his cock pressed right up to her body, twitching, _waiting_ —

But Hilda isn’t having it. She stares up at him, serious for a moment. “Why didn’t you say something!?”

“Something like _what_?” he protests.

“I don’t know!” she yells back. Already, they’ve both retreated back to their usual, teasing, chaotic selves. It’s probably better this way. “Okay, here—” She grabs his hand and put it back on her breast, smirking when he gives it an experimental squeeze. “Be gentle with that.”

“I’ll try,” he promises, and squeezes a tiny bit harder, grinning like a madman as she squeals under his touch. Gentle, yeah. He’d known she was curvy, but seeing _just how much_ she was hiding under that uniform—his palms start smoothing over her entire body, exploring her hips, her thighs, daring to discover firsthand how soft she is. Part of him still can’t believe this is _real_. When he finds only the tiniest pink patch of hair between her legs, he pauses—Hilda is just full of surprises, isn’t she? She must have shaved or waxed herself at some point, and it looks strange to his eyes for only a second before he immediately decides that he loves it. It’s so neat and flattering and quintessentially _her_.

Hilda wiggles a bit, positioning herself at the edge of her bed as Claude stands over her. She’s still grinning at him casually, like this isn’t anything different than cracking jokes in class or goofing off during axe practice. And why should it be?

“Have fun with your first time, okay?” she says sweetly. “Just don’t finish _in_ me, and don’t finish _on_ me.”

He gives her his most wounded look. “Where am I supposed to do it, then?”

“That’s _your_ problem,” she mocks him, and throws the last of her undergarments to the side. “Figure it out!”

No more waiting. He watches her face change as he sinks into her, loving her tiny gasps, her short, stifled breaths. She already feels so wet—she must have gotten worked up just from watching him, and the thought sends an excited jolt through his own body. He pushes in deeper, more desperately until he he’s fully inside her, panting like it’s exercise, still massaging his palms over her breasts. And maybe it’s just the aphrodisiac, but Hilda, how has he not wanted this before, how has she _never looked more beautiful_ —

“Gods, Hilda,” he moans as he starts to thrust. “T-this is so good...”

“Mm-hm,” she responds, unmoving.

“I mean it—” he gasps. “This—is so much better...”

“Mm-hm,” she responds again, still lying there motionless. Even her arms lie completely flat and lazy by her sides. Claude brushes over her nipples again, gently like she said, but suddenly, he wants _more_ than gentle—he reaches down, squeezing her thick thighs in his hands, pushing, gasping, trying to bounce her whole waist up and down on his cock.

There’s still no change on her face. She watches him with amused indifference; _disinterest_ , almost, as Claude hunches over, pressing his sweaty body to hers, watching her tits bouncing as her fucks her—the aphrodisiac whispers its mesmerizing song in his ear, whispering its _triumph_ , and he thrusts faster, reduced to nothing more than an animal in heat mindlessly humping her thighs for relief.

“Hilda,” he breathes, “Hilda, _Hilda_ —”

He can’t hold back. At the last second he remembers her warning and pulls out, sliding smoothly into his own hand. Hilda finally blinks awake, her neck craning up just in time to watch his cum shooting all over her cunt.

“Hey, are you kidding me?” she snaps. “That’s it?”

Claude exhales, his senses returning. A few more drops squeeze out of his cock, dripping weakly onto her thighs. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“Clean it off!”

Shamefully, he fumbles below them for the towel, but Hilda gently nudges him back up with a foot. She doesn’t even look mad, she just looks... _mischievous_. And that terrifies him, somewhat.

“I meant with your mouth,” she says gleefully.

Without even thinking, Claude drops to his knees. His brain takes a full second to catch up. “It’s edible?”

She just shrugs. “I think so? Girls do it. It comes out of your body, right? So it must be safe to eat.”

That’s solid enough logic; for Hilda, anyway. Claude cautiously sticks out his tongue. “I, uh, never tried it before. That’s all.”

“You’re being really worried about this for a guy who just poisoned himself!” she whines. “Just hurry up and do it! I didn’t get to finish!”

He promptly obeys, pressing his mouth against her. Hilda makes a proud, satisfied noise as he licks his seed off her body, swallowing it all, letting his tongue linger on her skin for longer than it really needs. His nose bumps her clit in a way that makes her softly squirm, and—with her scent surrounding him, with the stubbly hairs prickling at his lips—Claude’s eyes widen, and his hand moves down to grip his cock again.

He’s _so_ sore. This _shouldn’t be so arousing_. But if he was having any doubts, then the excitement pounding in his blood has just won him over. Hilda wriggles on her bed, actually _enjoying_ herself instead of just lying there, and Claude moans, kneeling before her, feeling her shake on his tongue as he desperately strokes his cock. His other hand is beneath her, supporting her ass, stealing the occasional squeeze—he would be lying if he said he’d never fantasized about this before, but only in passing, never as a priority; now that she’s _real_ in his hands the sensation of it is nearly overwhelming. The bitterness of his own cum has already faded, and Claude makes a mental note of it, of how Hilda’s juices are slightly less sticky than his own. The heat under his skin still burns feverishly as he tastes her in his mouth. He never, _ever_ wants to move from his place on his knees.

With a squeal, Hilda grinds her hips forward into his face. She’s panting even louder now, and her own hand slides down her body, rubbing her clit only an inch away from him. It’s a sight he knows he’ll never get tired of.

“Are you close?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” she gasps. “Don’t stop!”

There’s no longer any edge to her voice. Claude grins into her body. Of course they can’t stay mad at each other.

Hilda makes a depraved little moan, still playing with herself as Claude keeps licking her like he’s starved for it. Between her fingers working her clit and his sloppy, inexperienced aid, she’s soon gasping above him, arching her back—and then she’s _moaning_ , clenching and clenching and then going slack as she shudders through the waves of her orgasm.

It’s too much. Desperately, Claude rises to his feet, still stroking himself, and begs her, “Hilda, _please_.”

She sighs heavily, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “ _Don’t_ get any on me this time,” she says sharply.

Claude nods his head frantically and tries to say something clever in response—but his body is just too needy, and so he settles for thrusting himself inside her again. Perhaps it’s _too_ quickly, this time. The animal sound that rolls from his mouth is something between a wince and a groan. There’s just enough friction on his cock to sate him underneath the aching, like he’s barely holding his head above water, fighting hard to keep whatever tiny little pleasures he can find.

Hilda’s hand slows down as he fucks her through all the aftershocks. She’s overly sensitive herself, whimpering through every thrust, going until her hand finally drags to an exhausted standstill, palm down on her stomach. For a single moment, their eyes meet—and _real_ understanding flashes between them, and maybe concern, and mutual amusement—before her hot breaths become too enticing on his sweaty body, and Claude glances away in shame.

Too soon, he’s pulling out, stroking himself to another rough climax all over his stomach and hand.

“Okay,” he gasps, “okay, okay. Okay. I think I’m done. H-how was that?”

Hilda purrs atop her sheets, so pleased with herself. Her hands knead small, restless circles on her hips. “Hmm,” she says, slyly, drawn out, but not unsatisfied. “You’re a fast learner.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he wheezes. He grabs the damp towel off the floor, and Hilda petulantly sticks out her hand for it.

“Pass it here first. It’s _my_ towel.”

Claude barely holds back a snort of laughter. Never change, Hilda, never change.

The pulsating heat under his skin has deadened, somewhat, and he falls down next to her, suspending his sticky, half-cleaned hand in the air, stiffly balancing on his elbow so not to stain Hilda’s bed. It seems nearly impossible to him how much cum is splattered on his belly. Hilda finishes mopping up the sweat from her neckline and sits up. “So are you cured now? Or whatever?”

“Well, that depends,” he says, taking the towel from her. “What would you do if I said no?”

“Hey, don’t dodge the question, smart guy!” she exclaims. “Are you cured yet or can you keep going? Because I’m fucking sore. I think I can do one more round and that’s it.”

Claude exhales slowly, glancing down at himself. Right. Honesty. The fact that both of them are still totally naked is doing wonders for his vulnerability.

“I don’t think it’s over yet,” he admits. “But...my dick hurts so much. I can’t, right now...yeah. Just don’t do anything sexy for the next little while and I should be fine.”

“Sure,” she says, and immediately grabs twin handfuls of her own boobs, playing with herself, pointedly maintaining eye contact with him and wiggling her eyebrows the whole time. Claude bursts into laughter. He stands up from the bed, deposits the towel in her laundry pile and begins rummaging around her desk.

“Do you have any scratch paper?” he asks.

“Why?”

“To take notes.”

“To _take notes_?” she says incredulously. “Wow. Just...wow. I know this is your first time, but...wow, that is definitely not sexy—”

“I’m taking notes on the _aphrodisiac_!” he protests, and clutches over his heart dramatically. “If I were to, eh, _overwork_ myself into a heart attack and die, then I must leave my notes behind, so that others can carry on my work. To succeed where I had failed!”

“To not accidentally poison themselves like idiots, you mean!” Hilda exclaims. “Yeah, it’s in the top drawer. Yeah, you found it.” She leans over, grabbing her blouse. “Okay! I’m going to go to the bathroom. Stay here.”

Claude retrieves an inkpot and a blank page. “Where else would I go?”

“I dunno,” she jeers at him. “You’re like a cute little puppy dog, Claude, I just feel like you’ll wander off and get lost unless I tie you to a fencepost. So _stay here_.”

He straightens himself up to his full height, casually smiling at her, lacing his hands behind his head, flagrantly naked as he is. “And that reminds me. When are you gonna give me something to wear?”

“Before I kick you out. See? Aren’t I so generous?”

“That’s not exactly the word I would use,” he murmurs, and Hilda giggles. She’s only just tossed her socks and boots and skirt back on, and Claude can’t help but marvel in amazement; at her sheer audacity, if nothing else. Hilda looks just like she always does—there’s nothing but poise to hide the fact that she’s wearing nothing underneath her skirt. How could he ever tell?

He’ll never be able to look at her uniform the same way again. She skips past him and shuts the door, leaving Claude all alone with his imagination. He sits down on the chair, giving his thighs a much-needed break, free to ponder the absolute enigma that is Hilda Valentine Goneril.

She’s just helping because she wants him in her debt, that’s all. Out of all the students in the Golden Deer class, she’s probably the most... _like him_ , for lack of a better word. Learning how to manipulate people might just be a natural byproduct of growing up in Alliance politics. It’s a shame that the most she ever does with her talents is tricking others into doing her chores.

Claude sighs. In the back of his mind, at the base of his skull, there’s a worried whispering—he and Hilda have become friends, albeit unlikely ones, in these first few months of school. And now he’s gone and ruined it...he’s _let her see him vulnerable_. He’s going to have to look her in the eye tomorrow. He’s going to have to sit next to her in class, and give her orders on the battlefield, and cover for her when she ditches training...

But she seems totally unbothered by all of this. And he’s _still_ horny beyond rational thought. And honestly, doing Hilda’s laundry until the day he dies doesn’t seem so unfair when compared to...everything she’s doing for him.

So can he really complain?

Claude breathes in and crouches down to the floor. Right. His notes. He does actually want to take notes, because, all things considered, this is a surprisingly controlled testing environment. He hovers over the blank page, and immediately, his vision clouds over like he hasn’t slept in days.

He can’t focus. The way that Hilda whined under his touch keeps replaying itself in his mind. Claude unconsciously licks his lips—if he tries, he can still find the taste of her in his mouth, and the thought sends blood shooting straight down to his cock. Blushing, he picks up the quill and stares at the page for another second before promptly folding it and putting it away. There’s no kidding himself. As long as he sits in her room, he won’t be able to write anything down.

So instead, he takes another towel and wets it in her wash basin, using it to clean off drying sweat from his body. He takes the time to clean every part of himself, wiping off his sweaty limbs, his neglected back, his burning shoulders and neck. The hairs at his crotch are sticky with his cum, and very carefully, he scrapes it all away, wondering about Hilda’s neatly-trimmed bush as he does. When did she do it? _How_ did she do it? His cock is becoming worryingly hard again, and as soon as Claude is done preening himself he raises the towel to his face and groans into it loudly.

It smells like sleep and musk and sweat. It smells like _him_. And Claude isn’t a narcissist, necessarily, but it’s all he can do to not start masturbating again as he heavily breathes in his own scent.

His eyes flick to the bed, where Hilda’s panties are still lying on her pillow, right where she left them.

Would she mind?

“I’m back,” Hilda announces, kicking her door open. “How you doing?”

“Fine as always,” he says, crouching low to the ground again. It’s still a bit awkward to be naked while she’s clothed, especially in her own room, but the horny heat is prickling underneath his skin again to goad him through his shame. “Hilda, have I mentioned how positively adorable you look today?”

Hilda clasps her hands, bandying her knees, mocking a curtsy. “I don’t believe you have. Please, tell me more.”

“Truly, you are the loveliest, most delicate of flowers,” he waxes on. “So lovely, in fact, that you would stoop to rescue a sorry whelp like me from a terribly embarrassing, self-inflicted situation, for which I am eternally grateful...”

She smiles, playing along. “You’re right. I _did_ do that.”

“And for you to so graciously assist me through this difficult time, displaying the utmost patience and strength of character...”

“Claude,” she says, still in her overly formal, overly polite tone of voice, “you’re like, _this_ close. Don’t go ruining things now with your big fat mouth.”

He winks. “I can’t help it. It’s my best feature.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Well then. In that case, shall I put this mouth of mine to better use?”

“Please do,” she sighs, and promptly hikes up her skirt for him. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. Hilda rocks in place for second, trying to take a step towards the bed, but Claude is already wrapped around her, his long arms tightly clutching her legs, his hands shamelessly groping her ass. When it becomes clear he’s not letting go, Hilda taps him on the head. “Claude, can I sit down first?”

He grunts and buries his face deeper in her pussy. With his arms still hugging her tight, he begins to stand up, biceps straining—Hilda giggles as she figures out what he’s trying to do and shifts her weight atop him, her chest squishing against his head. Claude carries her to the bed, and he tries to be gentle, he _does_ ; but her body is so enticing that he can’t help but grind against her hips _hard_ as he sets her down. He drifts upward, mouthing weakly at her nipples, dampening the fabric of her uniform blouse. That’s fine. He’s going to be the one washing it anyway.

He lowers his face and lifts his eyes, trying to look endearing even with her sticky mess dribbling down his chin. She’s _right here_. Sparks shoots up his spine again, radiating throughout his body like a fever, or a sunburn, or like lingering drunkenness for which there’s only one cure.

“I need it,” he begs. “Please. One more time. Please?”

Hilda’s smile turns downright _cruel_ , and she slowly begins to unbutton her blouse, taking her sweet, sweet time to remove it, then moving down to her socks, pointedly ignoring Claude’s obvious discomfort. When sharp fingernails finally reach down and twist into his hair, it’s a _mercy_. She pushes his head between her legs again, forcing him back onto his knees.

“Me first,” she says with a wink.

He tries to nod, but the nails digging into his scalp hold him in place with surprising strength. They shouldn’t _feel so good_. Like a dog being pet, he supposes. His cock twitches below him, recklessly overconfident, because underneath the buzzing and the numbness there’s still the slightest promise of pleasure and that’s just enough to spur him on. He ruts absently into the air, smearing cum onto one of her bare ankles. Hilda lifts the leg up to his mouth so he can obediently drag his tongue across the stain. He doesn’t need to be told this time. Just like she said, he’s a fast learner.

Hilda’s skirt falls away, and her fingers twist into his hair again, _finally_ letting him press his tongue to her folds.

This time, with her hands on his head to guide him, he finds her core quicker, and Claude starts burning with pride. He wants her, and she _trusts_ him, trusting his tongue, not using her hands this time—the feeling strikes him, and Claude’s heart leaps in joy. The last thing he wants now is to let her down. He swirls his tongue around, moving from one inner thigh to the other, playing with her juices, devoting himself until Hilda’s moaning and gasping become a little too frantic to endure. His eyes lock with hers, pleading and full.

“I _need it_ ,” he whispers. “Can I put it in now?”

“Yeah,” she says, full volume, not bothering to whisper, and Claude can’t help but start laughing like an idiot. They’ve always brought laughter and irreverence to everything they do. Why did he think that this would be anything different?

It’s faster, far rougher than his first time, but Hilda doesn’t protest or complain, only pulls him down closer to her chest as she lays there. A nipple finds its way into his mouth and he teases it relentlessly with his tongue. Whatever gentleness he’s learned has been thrown out in favor of pure, mindless pounding, trying desperately to wring out what little he has left—his painful aching is not insignificant and he worries briefly about Hilda suffering the same, but Hilda holds strong, squirming below him, comfortably taking whatever he can give.

She climaxes first, and it’s _loud_ , and Claude _loves_ it. He follows a minute later, rolling next to her, gasping up at the ceiling as his cock dribbles weakly onto his stomach. They lie next to each other, panting, smiling, sore and spent. _Perfect_.

A fleeting memory pops into his head—twenty laps around the training grounds, their first activity together as a class. The first impression he had known of her. Hilda had crossed the finish line last and collapsed into a sweaty heap, not unlike the one they’re in right now. Except the difference is that this time they’ve gotten here together by Hilda putting in enough effort of her own.

Her laziness had become something of a running joke, an all-purpose excuse, more amusing than annoying. As her house leader, Claude probably shouldn’t be looking upon her laziness with such _fondness_.

“Hilda, can I kiss you?”

There’s a slight pause before she answers, “Do you know where your mouth has been?”

“That’s a good point,” he concedes. “So, Hilda, can I kiss you?”

She nods without reluctance and he leans in, wets his lips; she’s sleepy and soft and Claude is the more nervous between the two of them, yet through his fucked-out bliss it occurs to him that maybe he’s enjoying himself much more than he has any right to do.

Hilda starts grinning before they even break away. “You know, you looked pretty good like that.”

“Like what? Naked?”

“No. _Beneath me_.” She rolls closer and clings to his arm, smooshing it up against her breasts. “How do I put this? You’re normally so smug all the time. Next time you go off on one of your dumb speeches, I can just tune it out and think of you on your knees. It’ll be funny.”

“Yeah, you sure showed me,” he says. “You, uh, really put me in my place. I’m so embarrassed. Damn. This memory will haunt me forever...”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to smack you,” she says fondly, and does nothing of the sort. Instead, she catapults herself off the bed and glances over her chair. “Where’s my other towel? Did you use it?”

“Maybe.”

She _does_ smack him now, lightly on the knee. Claude stands up and finds the towels where he left them in the laundry pile, and he winces. His legs tremble with fatigue, and his cock is an absolute mess, and his stomach is still splattered with cum that he tries not to let roll away as he wipes himself dry. But at least the burning nausea in his veins has finally faded.

Hasn’t it?

Hilda’s window is open, and all her candles remain unlit. There’s no reason why the air in her room should seem so smoky. There’s no reason why he should still be feeling so _hot_.

“Shit,” Claude mutters out loud.

She turns to him immediately. Her bare breasts give him feelings that he really can’t afford right now. “What?”

“Hey, Hilda,” he groans. “I got a fucking problem.”

“Like, a fucking problem, or a _fucking_ problem?”

“It’s about to be both,” he answers grimly. With a flourish, he gestures downward.

“No way,” she says. If Claude tries hard enough, he can pretend she sounds impressed, rather than exasperated. “How are you _still_ not done? I can barely even walk right now. What the fuck.”

He shrugs. “I thought I _was_ done.”

Hilda’s not smiling anymore. “Can’t you just jack off or something? I already helped you so much. I really, _really_ can’t do it again. I mean it.”

“I know,” he says apologetically. “Delicate flower, fragile body...I know. Thanks anyway.” Wearily, he sits down, then stretches out on the floor. Her carpet is soft enough to lie on. “I’m gonna try and rest. And see if it doesn’t...go away on its own.”

“Yeah,” Hilda says distantly. “Try.”

He tries. And he fails. He curls up on his side to angle his manhood as least offensively as he can, a seemingly pointless afterthought after all that they’ve done. Minute after restless minute burns away as he stares at the space under her bed, trying to focus on anything but his own body. Hilda covers him with a blanket at some point and he sweats beneath it, cursing himself for letting it get this far. The aphrodisiac _is_ a form of poison, after all; it works using the same physiological principles, and the rational part of his brain must have told him at some point that this was the worst treatment conceivable for a poisoning victim, only to get outvoted by his lower half. Well, he’s paying the price for it now.

Claude rolls over again, ticklish and tired and sick. He watches Hilda as she sits straight-backed in front of her vanity mirror, clothed in a pink sleeping gown, brushing her hair. She looks so... _normal_. Like she has places to be, and classes to attend, like she won’t be spending the rest of her day whimpering on a floor at the whims of somebody else.

Well...he _did_ make her laugh, smile, and scream today. And it’s not even noon. Claude grins to himself through his delirium. That has to count for something. If she was planning to kick him out, she would have already done it. Yes, there were much worse people to get caught by. He’s lucky that his keeper is a kind and compassionate one.

Hilda’s voice suddenly rings out, disgusted. “Wait, are you actually jacking off under there?”

“What? No—” he says suddenly, but realizes a second later that his hips have been unconsciously rutting forward, over and over, unable to find any other kind of relief. Under the covers, it must have looked like something different. “I’m not...I wasn’t. I swear.”

She steps forward, tilting her head. “Let me see.”

Claude throws off the covers—there’s nothing that he can he hide from her anymore—and he’s more dismayed than she is to find that his condition hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse. The head of his cock is slick with precum. Hilda’s blanket is sticky and smeared with it. Another one for the laundry pile.

“It kind of hurts,” he says sheepishly.

She asks, in a dead serious tone, “Do you want to go to the infirmary?”

“Gods, no, please, no. It’s not like they’re gonna have an antidote in there. It’ll just be like here except with less privacy.”

Hilda pouts at him. “Well, I don’t want you to _actually_ have a heart attack in my room, Claude! That would be really awkward to explain.”

“Well...look on the bright side. I think it’s starting to wear off.”

“Starting?” Hilda repeats.

“Yeah.”

Hilda sighs like she’s doing him a great favor, sits down on her bed, and helps him to his feet. He leans against her body with his cock twitching, impossibly beaten, nearly stroked raw, still eager for more.

“Can we go again?” he asks hopefully, the neediness obvious in his voice. “Please? One more time?”

Hilda meets him with the most self-satisfied, mocking expression he’s ever seen in his entire life.

“No,” she says smugly. “I’m tired.”

Claude’s lips pinch together in desperation.

Overdramatically, Hilda sighs again, rolls her eyes, and says, “Well, I _suppose_...if you really want to go for another round...like, if you really, _really_ wanted to...you could just use my legs or my thighs. You know, you can’t expect me— _hey_!”

She’s cut off as Claude grabs both of her ankles in one hand, hiking them into the air, and starts desperately grinding himself all over her ass. She still has her panties on and _Gods_ , that’s hot, that’s _so hot_ —his cock slips into the space between her plump thighs and he starts thrusting right away, letting her feet rest on his shoulder while he forces her thighs tighter together in his hands. Hilda lets out an indignant whine, but does nothing else but watch as he frantically humps her, the head of his cock poking out over her stomach.

Good, his mind races, he’s fucked all the snark out of her. Did she think this would be humiliating for him? He’s already well beyond the point of shame. A pathetic amount of cum spurts onto her stomach and Claude bends down to lick it up immediately, pushing her legs apart, burying his face between them. Hilda squeals as his mouth moves all over her body—she truly is still sensitive—but Claude doesn’t stop. He’s been too well-trained to stop.

When he finally lifts his head, she’s looking down on him, panting, but mildly annoyed. “...You really can’t control yourself, huh?”

Claude groans in response, resting his head against her thigh like a pillow as his clarity returns to him, and he realizes how bad his aching has gotten. He’s so sore and so spent that he’s practically numb. He shouldn’t have any more left in him—but the aphrodisiac still pounds in his veins, quickening the pace of his heart, and to his utter horror his libido fires up _again_ , not weakened in the slightest after so many orgasms.

He hangs his head downward. He doesn’t want Hilda to see him if he starts _crying_. She’s been far too good for him, but even her patience will wear thin if he can’t keep his hands to himself, and he’ll end up ruining their scant friendship after all. She’s still not even mad, just... _amused_ , and that just makes him feel all the more ashamed of himself.

Softly, Hilda slips a finger under his chin, propping his face up to look at her. He kneels between her legs, tearful, trembling at her mercy.

“I’ve got an idea,” she intones. “Stand up. Turn around.”

He does without question. He’s still totally naked, and he hears Hilda leaning around on the bed behind him. He can feel her eyes tracing up and down his exposed back, like he’s nothing more than a cut of meat on display at a market stall.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Just checking. Are your legs tired?”

“Not any more than the rest of me. Why?”

“Just checking,” she repeats. He can practically hear the smirk growing on her face. “Hey...you’re still horny, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Want to do something for me?”

“I’ll do anything,” he says immediately, equally desperate for her good graces so much as his own relief. Hilda hums into the air.

“You know, there _is_ another way.”

 _That_ catches his attention. His head whips around. “What other way?”

“You seriously don’t know?”

At this point, he can’t even pretend he’s not desperate. “No. What are you talking about?”

“Up the ass,” she says plainly. “Yeah. You heard right! Still willing to give it a try?”

Claude looks down, studying his own anatomy as if he’s seeing it for the first time. More than a few things suddenly click into place in his head.

“I’ll do it,” he blurts out, and Hilda’s smile widens, his _salvation_. “I’ll try it. I-I’ll do anything you want me to, if you think it’s gonna help—”

“Good!” she says, cutting off his inane rambling, shoving past him so she can rummage through her desk drawers. Triumphantly, she holds up an unmistakably phallic object—it’s bright pink, naturally—handing it to him like he knows what to do with it, matter-of-factly telling him, “This one is clean,” and Claude just blinks at her because he can’t even begin to start unpacking that statement.

“Well,” he says, “thanks.”

Already, she’s pulling him by the arm, a huge smile fixed again to her face. She takes the less stained of her towels, lays it down flat on her bed, and motions for Claude to sit. There’s hardly any point in making himself comfortable, but still, he tries, lying on his back, settling on her sheets. Hilda reappears at his side with a tiny, unmarked vial of oil, which she unceremoniously pushes into his hand, and Claude tries not to balk too openly.

“Is this really gonna work?” he asks dubiously.

“Oh yeah, for sure,” she says, shining with enough enthusiasm for the both of them. “It might take a bit of effort. But it _will_ work! Probably.”

His cock stands straight up, suspicious. He shouldn’t question a good thing, but Hilda seems a little _too_ excited about watching him. With a quiet _pop_ , he uncorks the vial and spreads a few drops onto his fingertips, and Hilda shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. Put a lot more than that. It’s gonna go all the way inside you, remember?”

That _does it_. Claude looks away, trying not to laugh in his nervous mortification. He would be hiding his face in his hands if they weren’t slick with oil and sweat. Hilda is still grinning at him like the worst kind of lecher; she’s got him right where she wants him, they both know it, and the best thing about it is he’s perfectly fine with that. Hilda wouldn’t lead him astray _now_. Carefully, he lowers the toy to his hole, tracing and rubbing the tip between his cheeks, trying to work up the courage to slide it inside. It leaves a trail of oil behind and he can’t decide whether it feels soothing or disgusting on his skin.

“Relax,” Hilda tells him.

“It feels kind of weird,” he grunts.

“Relax means _relax_. So can you just relax already? Your shoulders are all like _this_.” She hunches over and trembles, doing a terrible imitation of him. “If you were so stressed, then maybe you should have been trying this earlier!”

His mind is too frazzled to come up with any sort of wisecrack in response, so he chooses to focus on the task at hand. He’s never been curious enough to even stick a finger inside himself. But the fake cock feels welcoming, shaped and designed to be that way, and if there’s ever a time when his body will take it, it’s _now_.

With a deep breath, he eases the tip into his hole, and then stops.

“That’s it,” Hilda coos. “Relax. Breathe! Get it all the way inside before you start moving.”

He wordlessly nods, trying to go limp around the foreign object inside of him. Deeper and deeper, breath by breath, he pushes it to what seems like a reasonable length, and then stops again.

“I don’t think it’s working,” he manages through gritted teeth.

Hilda furrows her brow, like she’s actually putting serious thought into solving this inconvenience for him. “Spread your legs a bit more.”

He does, growing worried, becoming increasingly aware of how ridiculous he must look. It’s not as though he’s inflexible, but his body is new at this; his arm extends stiffly down, his thighs are split as wide open as they will go, and a self-conscious layer of sweat covers his skin. Hilda sits beside him in her modest sleeping gown, proper as could be. She only makes him more anxious—is he doing something wrong?

Hilda looks down on him, and for the first time, her face twists into what might be genuine consternation, and Claude’s heart suddenly sinks in his chest. He can’t let her down _now_. With renewed vigor, he forces his body to relax, trying so hard to please her. Tears might be forming in his eyes. Whimpering, Claude bends his back a little—and then _gasps_.

A wave of pleasure shoots through his body, rattling all the way up to his brain before bouncing back to his legs. A loud, exaggerated noise escapes him, followed by a moment of silence, and then a meek, reverent, “ _I think I found it_.”

Hilda smiles at him, and _oh_ , yes. It was all worth it.

Encouraged, he slowly begins to move, pushing the toy against _that_ _spot_ over and over again. It’s easily one of the strangest sensations he’s ever felt—like pressing down on a bruise with his fingers, except it induces waves of pleasure rather than pain. Right away, he’s tempted to rush, to figure out what his limits are and then hover just below them, but the schemer in him is telling him to go slow. He needs to discover how much he can take—and besides, it would be disappointing he lost control in a minute, like his _other_ first time.

Hilda is expecting a show. And honestly, Claude can’t say she doesn’t deserve one.

“Talk to me, Hilda,” he breathes. “I could—ah—use a little inspiration, yeah?”

Her eyes are practically gleaming. She nudges herself a bit closer on the bed, placing a cautious hand on his knee. “How is it?”

“Good.” His hand doesn’t slow as he speaks, fucking himself at a steady pace. “It’s good. _Gods_ , this is good.” The stretch is more satisfying than painful now. Leaning back, Claude pushes in deeper, grinding the head against that spot inside his walls, and his mouth drops open as sharp shockwaves of bliss shoot through his body. He hadn’t expected it to be _that_ strong.

“You are taking it _really_ well,” Hilda compliments him, genuinely proud. Claude grins and shudders in place, rocking his hips now, getting in a rhythm. He doesn’t miss the way Hilda’s eyes trace over him, back and forth between his curled toes, past the heavy rise and fall of his chest, all the way up to his flushed expression. She looks restless, like she can’t decide what to focus on first. Her smile is so wide it can only be real.

“What can I say? I’m really talented.” His cock trembles stiffly above him, ruddy, sore and leaking untouched. “You opened my mind, Hilda—and few other things, as well, heh—I don’t think I can go back to just my hands...”

“Always happy to help,” she says dreamily, without moving her eyes. The tension coiling under his spine is already becoming too much to bear, filling him up with impossible pleasure, and Claude plays up his spasms, biting his lower lip, holding himself back until he can’t be sure how much is performance and how much is his body’s own yearning.

“Hilda, I can’t hold on,” he whines. “I can’t—it’s like— _Hilda_ —”

She leans in, unable to hide her excitement any longer. Her hand grows heavier on his knee. “Do it!”

With his free hand, he reaches down to hold himself open, and the sparks _intensify_ , and _suddenly_ —

He’s crying out and shaking through the strongest orgasm he’s ever had, thrusting the toy inside him to make every wave _blinding_. His whole body spasms, and to his side, Hilda is practically vibrating in place with joy, her hand still gripping his leg like a ticklish lifeline. Thin, watery fluid drips out of his cock, and he watches with an almost scientific fascination as it oozes weakly down his shaft and pools in his belly button.

He’s put on his performance, satisfied his audience, and yet, there’s still more he can do. _Gods_ , he can’t help it. He swipes cum off his stomach with a finger and plunges it into his mouth. Hilda actually seems shocked by the decadence of it, watching speechlessly as he sucks it clean, moaning and licking around his own scent.

“Oh,” she says, flustered. “Oh, wow. Goddess, that was kind of...wow. What’s gotten into you?”

“Verticordia pollen. Imported from Morfis—”

“Forget I asked,” she says, and starts fanning herself with a hand. “Good job. That was good...for a beginner. Try to hit your face next time.”

Her words shouldn’t have such an _effect_ on him. “I’ll get better,” he says modestly. And he means it.

Hilda nods, still fanning herself. “So are you _finally_ done now?”

Claude presses a feeble hand over his stomach. It comes away sticky, and it takes an impressive amount of willpower to not suck on his fingers again.

“I think so,” he huffs. His body lays boneless, no longer jiggling or itching to stave off the heat. With a long sigh, he eases the toy out of him. His ass hurts in the strangest way, and with the pain comes a newfound wave of sympathy for Hilda. If he went through a few more rounds of _that_ , he’d probably not be able to walk either. “That was...intense. Like, full-body...sheesh. Yeah, I think that did it. I can feel it in my blood. I mean, I _can’t_ feel it in my blood. That’s probably a good sign. Oh, I’m keeping this, by the way.”

“Sure,” she says, and then, not missing a beat, “but, you know, those things are kind of expensive. If I just _gave_ it to you, then, well, you’d have to make it up to me somehow...”

Her eyelashes flutter cutely at him and Claude smirks, never one to back down from a challenge. “I’m sure your devious little mind could think of a chore for me to do.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about chores.”

“Me neither.”

They grin stupidly at each other, and Claude feels his heart lifting in relief. Why did he ever let himself get so worried?

“Can I just stay here for a bit?” he asks hopefully. “I really don’t wanna move. I don’t think I can...function, right now.”

“Do you want to nap, then?” Hilda says, and then yawns, reclaiming her bed as Claude goes about mopping himself up. She curls up beneath her covers, her sleeping gown too thin and too short yet still making her look modest compared to his nakedness. “I was gonna take a nap. You can snuggle up with me, if you want.”

“I-I’d like that,” he says, too quickly, and glances down at himself. “Should I, uh, put on pajamas or something?”

“Yeah, you should. But...you know how I said I was gonna give you something to wear?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t actually have any guys’ clothing,” she admits, so free of guilt that it’s impossible for Claude not to laugh. “I thought I did. Turns out I didn’t! I’ll go get one of your uniforms later. Just stay with me for now.”

He climbs into the bed with her, settling behind her, his cock finally soft enough to press their bodies together. “Always.”

“It just feels nice to snuggle up with someone, right?” she says sleepily. “I was doing this with Annette...”

“You were _what_ with Annette?”

She gently jabs her elbow backward into his ribs. “We were _napping_! Get your mind out of the gutter. She works so hard, she needed a break. Unlike you.”

“And you’re such a hard worker, too,” he says straightfaced.

“Yeah, I am. I deserve a little break, don’t I? I put in a _lot_ of effort just now...”

Claude snuggles closer to her. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

He can’t see her face, but he’s pretty sure she rolling her eyes. Their embrace is everything amazing about Hilda, only intensified; he can feel her softness all over in her chest and her arms, her warmth radiates from her core as he pulls the covers over them, even her free-spirited attitude makes itself known as she steals all his space on the bed. Somehow, it’s still more comfortable than he’s ever been.

 _This_ is the part that he loves, the side of their relationship that he _does_ know how to navigate. The banter, the jokes, the scheming. It didn’t crumble after they went into battle together and it won’t crumble no matter what he does. Their bond is easy, oddly domestic, and full of trust, despite Claude’s tendencies to the contrary. Napping outside of his room should scare him more than anything, but having Hilda on top of him makes him feel _good_. Or maybe he’s just too exhausted to care. He misses the dagger under his pillow, and worries about the lack of a tripwire across her door...

Claude yawns. “You’ll protect me, right?”

“What? Uh, yeah, sure,” Hilda says. “Good night!”

“It’s still morning,” he points out.

“Good night!” she says louder and more insistently, and Claude snickers as he falls into a fitful sleep, safe with Hilda in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Hilda does actually know some first aid! It’s a really overlooked part of her character. She mentions it in one of her supports and it literally never gets brought up again. So I don’t think she would leave Claude to suffer alone. At least, not for very long.
> 
> Claude’s Crest can heal him. I assume that extends to his stamina. Don’t worry about it.
> 
> I did not expect this to be 10k+ when I started writing it! Fic is just like that sometimes.


End file.
